‘You can always invest in us,’ said Miller sharply, and Anstruther grinned sardonically. ‘Why buy something that you might be given?’ he asked. The qualities which had amassed him a fortune in the East were very obvious in him now. ‘I could invest or I could stay out, and if I stay out there won’t be a railway line down here. You need my land for the next section.’
‘We have Falconwood’s land,’ said Miller, pointing to his neighbour at the table.
‘Falconwood only has a strip. You can build a bridge on his land but without my spread, it’ll lead nowhere.’ Anstruther was obviously enjoying himself.
Miller changed his tactics, leaned back and smiled. ‘Of course we are very aware of your value to our enterprise. We’ll make you a director and as part of your emolument you’ll have thirty thousand shares.’
Anstruther smiled back, all aggression gone. ‘And how many are there altogether?’
‘Five hundred thousand.’
‘Not bad. It’s almost enough for me to agree to make my family social pariahs, because that’s what we’ll be when it gets out that we’ve sided with you. The Duke and his toadies will cut us dead.’ He didn’t say that they’d cut him already anyway and he didn’t care a fig.
‘Would forty-thousand shares soften the blow?’ asked Miller.
Anstruther threw back his head and laughed. ‘I wonder if my new daughter-in-law would rather be rich, or patronised by the aristocracy?’ he asked aloud. Then he answered his own question. ‘From the look of her, I’d say she’d rather be rich. I’m in.’ Then he reached down to the floor to haul up another bottle of champagne from the cooler and beckoned to the red-haired maid to bring more glasses.
Hannah moved quietly, not drawing attention to herself and making sure that the keen interest she took in what was being said went unremarked. Though she was tired and her back ached with the effort of standing stock-still, hands folded, by the wall, she was glad Mr Allardyce had chosen her to help him. What was being discussed, she knew, was the fate of her village and her heart ached with sympathy for her mother for, though she herself was not against the coming of a railway, she knew how much it upset Tibbie and others like her.
Her ears were pricked as the Colonel started discussing the building of the railway bridge. ‘That’s going to be your biggest hurdle,’ he told Miller. ‘It’s going to have to go at a difficult place if it crosses Falconwood’s land. Who’s going to build it for you?’
Miller looked up from his glass and said, ‘I know of the very man. His name is Christopher Wylie.’
‘I’ve heard of Wylie,’ said Falconwood, turning in his chair. ‘He’s famous. Didn’t he build the big bridge at Berwick? He’ll not build our bridge unless we pay him a fortune.’
Miller nodded. ‘Yes, he built that bridge and he’s also the man who put in a fortune with George Hudson and lost the lot. He’s desperate for money now. My cousin Thomas Munro is his banker in Newcastle and I know to a penny what he owes. Wylie’ll build our bridge – and he’ll build it at our price.’
‘That’s what I like to hear,’ Falconwood gloated. ‘I’ll leave the organising to you. We have a deal then, have we? I’m in if you are, Anstruther.’
The stout little Colonel stood up and struck out his hand. ‘I’m in too. You’ve got a railway, gentlemen – just make sure it’s finished quickly and starts bringing in money as soon as possible. Now it’s time to go to bed, it’s past midnight.’
* * *
It was almost noon next day when Hannah arrived at her mother’s front door. When she turned the handle she found to her surprise that it was locked. No one locked their doors in Camptounfoot unless they had something to hide, so she ran to the little window overlooking the street and rapped on it with anxious fingers, shouting, ‘Mam, Mam, let me in. What’s wrong?’
When Tibbie unlocked the door her daughter asked, ‘Why were you locked in? Has Craigie been bothering you again?’
‘No, I’m feared of these navvies that folk say are moving into Rosewell.’
Hannah giggled, ‘You’re the limit. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.’ Then she remembered the bad news she was bringing and said more soberly, ‘Come and sit down while I tell you what I heard last night. I don’t want you to get too upset, but they are going to build the railway line through here – and they’re building a bridge as well. The Colonel’s going in with them.’
Tibbie’s face was stricken. ‘Then it won’t be stopped now, will it? Where’s the bridge to go?’
‘Across the big field where Craigie grazes his bullocks. They had plans of the land with them last night. They said that’s the best place.’
Tibbie gasped, ‘My God, that bonny field! Craigie’ll be taking pot shots at anybody who even puts a foot on it. We’re in for awfy trouble, I feel it in my bones.’
Hannah sighed, ‘Apparently that’s not Craigie’s field – he only rents it from Falcon wood. That’s why they can take it back. A man called Wylie’s going to build it for them. I heard them talking about him. He needs the money, so they say.’
Her mother stood listening and wringing her hands. ‘Oh Hannah, everything’s going to change. Nothing’ll ever be the same again.’
Hannah clasped Tibbie round the waist. ‘Oh Mam, don’t worry. It won’t be as bad as you think, I’m sure it won’t. What are you so scared about?’
Tibbie shook her head. ‘I’m feared of the trains and I’m feared for the village. I’ve not seen the marching men this year and I think I may never see them again… I’m feared that something bad’s going to happen. I don’t know what – I’ve just got this awful feeling.’
Hannah shook her gently. ‘Stop it now, Mam. Nothing bad’s going to happen. You mustn’t think like that, it’s unlucky.’
‘Oh Hannah, you’re young,’ Tibbie wailed, ‘you don’t understand what an upheaval this means to us older folk. There’s people in this village that have stopped speaking to each other over the head of it. It’s splitting us up and that’s only the start.’
Hannah tried to laugh. ‘Does it matter much if you don’t speak to Bob and Mamie any more? Come on Mam, be sensible. It’s not like you to act the goat. You’re not like daft Craigie or silly old Jo…’ She pulled some faces and eventually succeeded in making her mother laugh a little. Then Tibbie looked into her girl’s frank and honest brown eyes that shone with common sense and sympathy. ‘Oh, you’re the kindest girl that’s ever walked the world. I am being silly, amn’t I? Why do I worry about the village so much when the most important thing in the world for me is you!’ she cried and hugged Hannah close.
They spent a peaceful gossipy afternoon together and Tibbie was regaled with every detail about the dinner party and the dramatic arrival of the Colonel’s son and his lovely, exotic wife. She couldn’t hear enough about Bethya and had to be told again and again what she looked like, and what she wore.
Hannah had good powers of description and recreated the scene with panache, saying dreamily, ‘Oh Mam, you’ve never seen such a bonny woman in your life. She’s got the blackest hair and her face looks as if it was carved from ivory. All the servants are saying they can’t imagine why she married that fat hulk, young Mr Gus. He never gives her a kind look either.’
Tibbie, fascinated, shook her head. ‘There’ll be trouble there then, mark my words.’ They gossiped and speculated until it was four o’clock and Hannah had to leave. Her mother waved her off from the front door, calling after her, ‘Next time you come we’ll go for a walk, Hannah. It’s a long time since we had one of our walks.’
‘All right, next time…’ came Hannah’s voice, echoing back along the empty street. She knew her mother wanted them to walk the old paths that might soon disappear under the new railway.
Chapter Four
A smart carriage bowled up to the front door of a large, imposing bank at the end of Newcastle’s Neville Street, and a fine-looking gentleman emerged from it to stand on the pavement and stare up at the building’s windows for
a second. Then, pulling down the sleeves of his jacket with a determined air, he approached the bank’s door with its gleaming brass handles and enormous knocker. Christopher Wylie was deadly tired, both in mind and body, but he knew he must not show it, especially today, for he had a very important appointment with Thomas Munro, his banker.
Munro was waiting for him. He stood up when Wylie entered the room, but his demeanour was grave and there was no welcoming decanter of sherry and gleaming glasses on the desk top. Only customers who were in credit were treated to sherry. Munro surprised his caller, however, by walking round his desk and coming forward with one hand out-thrust. ‘I was sorry to hear about your tragedy,’ he said solemnly.
Wylie’s handsome face wore a stricken expression but only for a moment. Recovering his composure he said, ‘Thank you. We all found it hard to bear. My wife’s still not come to terms with it…’
‘I lost a son when he was small – younger than yours, though. My lad was nine.’
Christopher nodded. ‘James was twenty-five. It’s a tragedy at whatever age.’
‘Sit down,’ said Munro, pulling out a chair, ‘and tell me what I can do for you today. Your letter said you’d a proposition for me.’
The caller nodded. ‘I have. I’ve been given the chance to bid for a big contract in the north. There’s good reason to believe that it’s mine for the asking, but I need the money to finance my offer.’
Munro knew as much if not more about the contract in question than his caller, but he kept his face impassive and nodded his head slowly. ‘How much money do you need?’ he asked.
Wylie raised his white head and fixed pale-blue eyes on the banker’s face. ‘I need ten thousand pounds now and another ten later.’
The banker sat back in his chair and shook his head. ‘Not possible, old man, not possible. You’re in to us for ten thousand already. I can’t double your debt, far less treble it. The shareholders would never stand for that.’
‘You’ll be paid back with interest in two years. You know me, I’m an honest man. I only owe money because of Hudson’s crash. I’ll pay it all back when I get this bridge job.’
‘What if you don’t?’
A flash of anger showed in Wylie’s eyes. His proud spirit hated being put in the position of a beggar. ‘I’ll pay my debts anyway. I’m not finished yet. There’s other bridges to be built and I’ve a good reputation.’
Munro hastened to agree with him. ‘The best, the best, I don’t doubt it.’ He knew the history of the man before him. Christopher Wylie was a self-made man, born in Newcastle to a poor family, who’d succeeded through enterprise and incredibly hard work. Starting when he was still in his teens, he’d prospered through the years of Railway Mania, building bridges and stations, viaducts and embankments. His reputation was impeccable – he played fair and gave good value for money. It was not his fault that he was short of money at a time in his life when he should have been contemplating retiring to a life of ease. He’d invested with his old friend, George Hudson, the Railway King, and when Hudson crashed, many of his friends went down with him – Wylie not as far as some of the others.
‘Tell me about this bridge,’ said Munro in a more mollified tone, and Wylie leaned forward with his hands knotted on his lap.
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve seen the specifications and it’s to go on a very difficult site. But it’ll be a challenge. I think it’ll be my last bridge and I want it to be my best.’
Munro smiled. ‘Then it’ll be something very special, for you’ve built a lot of fine bridges in your career.’
‘Oh, it will be special, it will be! I’m probably the only man in the country who can build it and I’ve an idea in my mind that’ll make it very special indeed.’ Wylie unlocked his hands and spread them out in a wide gesture. He wasn’t boasting idly and both of them knew it. His genuine enthusiasm even infected the cautious man on the other side of the desk.
‘I’d like to help you,’ said Munro, ‘but are you sure you’ll be paid fairly and on time?’ He wished he could drop his mask and lean across the desk to tell Wylie, ‘Watch out for Miller. He may be my own cousin, but he’s as slippery as an eel.’
‘Oh, I’ll be paid,’ was the reply. ‘The bridge is being built over the Tweed by a consortium of local landowners and railway men from Edinburgh. They’re crossing untapped country so it’s bound to do well. They’ve hit on a money-maker, but they need this bridge and they’ve come to me for it.’
He wanted to say to Munro, ‘Please back me. This is my last chance and I know it. If I can get this job I’ll be able to recover some of my lost position and leave my family comfortable when I die. Listen to me, listen, listen.’ But he was a proud man and he recoiled from too much self-revelation.
‘Twenty thousand is a lot of money,’ said Munro cautiously.
‘But it won’t be just any bridge. This is going to be a thing of beauty,’ said Wylie with conviction.
The banker sank his head in his hands. ‘Oh God, man, you can’t afford a thing of beauty. Why don’t you just build them an ordinary, workmanlike bridge?’
Wylie shook his head. ‘But I’ve told you – this is going to be my last bridge, my swan song. I want to go out on a high note and this is my chance to do it. How much will you back me for?’
Munro looked up. ‘Ten thousand, only ten thousand. No second instalment.’
Wylie jumped to his feet, as agile as a man half his age, ‘That’ll have to do, then. When can I get it?’
‘When do you need it?’
‘I’m going to Scotland tomorrow to talk terms and see the site. I’ll come back next week and tell you whether or not they’re going to sign with me. Don’t worry, you’ll not lose your money, and I’ll build a good bridge, even if I have to kill myself in the attempt.’
Munro felt admiration for the man as he stood up to shake hands once again. ‘I hope very sincerely you don’t kill yourself, Mr Wylie, and get a good safe contract with the railway company. Don’t leave any loopholes or they’ll catch you out.’
‘At least I’ve warned him,’ he thought, ‘but business is business and every man must watch out for himself.’ Whatever happened the bank would get its money, for what he had not told Wylie was that he and his fellow directors were also shareholders in the Edinburgh and South of Scotland Railway Company.
When he found himself on the pavement again, Christopher Wylie tilted his head to stare at a patch of blue sky that showed above the towering roofs of recently erected buildings. He’d made his first fortune here and lost it again, but now he intended to make another. ‘I must, I must,’ he told himself. ‘I can’t die and leave my family victims of the bankers. I can’t leave them penniless when they think they’re rich. I’ll recover my position,’ he vowed to himself.
Haggerty the coachman, who’d been with Wylie for thirty years, was waiting in a side street, and when he saw his employer come round the corner, he lifted the reins and sat up straight with a quizzical look on his face. Climbing in behind him, Wylie said, ‘Your job’s all right for another six months. I got the money.’
Haggerty grinned, showing broken teeth. ‘Well done, Chris,’ he said. As was the case with Cockburn, there was no master-and-servant constraint between them when they were alone, but Haggerty would never have acted so familiarly if anyone else had been present.
‘Take me home,’ said Wylie, slumping back against the cushioned wall and closing his eyes. It was a relief to have a smart carriage to drive about in, for a man had to keep up appearances and he was glad that he did not have to make his way home by public conveyance. He could sit back, doze a little and let Haggerty do the driving. His bones ached and his head throbbed. He felt very old indeed. In fact he’d felt that way for the past nine months, ever since the terrible day they’d laid his son James in his grave. James, his only son, his heir, his successor. It was to James that he had intended to pass down his business. Now there was no one to take it over, but he coul
d not stop working himself till he’d put things back on a firm footing, made it worth selling to one of his eagerly watching rivals.
Home was Wyvern Villa, a redbrick house built in the suburb of Jesmond. It stood in the middle of large gardens, its facade topped with a tower like an Italian campanile that ended in a big iron weather vane. The windows in the tower had little leaded lights that cast patterns of bright colours over the floors inside, and the front door was studded like the gate of a mediaeval castle and adorned with an iron knocker in the shape of a mailed fist. Mrs Wylie loved Wyvern Villa but Christopher much preferred the old Georgian, flat-fronted house near the docks where they had lived until she persuaded him that their growing prosperity meant they ought to move to a better district.
‘After all, we’ve a daughter to marry off and she must move in the right society,’ his wife had said.
Wylie was asleep when the carriage rattled to a stop at his front door. Haggerty turned round and poked him on the shoulder with his whip at the same time as the door opened. A thin, pale girl came running down the steps and opened the carriage door. ‘Oh Papa, you do look tired. Come in at once and I’ll bring you some tea,’ she told him.
‘Make it a brandy, Emma Jane,’ he said as he climbed out. ‘I’m celebrating because I think I’m going to get that bridge I’ve been bidding for.’
She clasped her hands in pleasure. ‘That’s wonderful! I know you want to build it. It’ll give you something to take your mind off James, won’t it?’
All he said was, ‘Yes, that’s right. It’ll keep me busy. Now lead me to the brandy.’
In the first-floor drawing room his pretty wife Arabella was lying on a long divan with a Paisley shawl draped over her legs. Her plump face was strained and a handkerchief dangled from the hand that hung slackly down towards the floor. Wylie paused in the doorway and smiled at her but she only smiled faintly back. His heart filled with love and pity for he knew she could not come to terms with losing James.
A Bridge in Time Page 6
